


responsibility

by TheWhitesOfYourEyes



Category: Rise of the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles (Cartoon 2018), Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles - All Media Types
Genre: Backstory, Family, Gen, Pre-Canon, Turtle Tots, gratuitous references to renaissance art
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-26
Updated: 2020-11-25
Packaged: 2021-03-08 20:27:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,768
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27202472
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheWhitesOfYourEyes/pseuds/TheWhitesOfYourEyes
Summary: Hamato Yoshi never wanted kids.And yet life, as always, throws the most vicious of curveballs as he retreats from the crumbling lab with four bundles in his arms and hair sprouting from his legs.
Comments: 15
Kudos: 105





	1. Chapter 1

_With his mothers hand in his, he lets her lead as they trace along the edges of the picture. It was a girl, and she was pretty, and he could tell the painting was old even though it was just a photograph._

“The Mona Lisa _,” His mother says, smiling, and Yoshi smiles at her in turn. “Painted in 1503 by Leonardo Da Vinci. One of the most famous pieces of renaissance art.”_

_His mother has an eye for art. Yoshi wonders why she never became a professional painter. She would have been good at it, he thinks when he watches her hand move across the canvas, colours flowing from her brush like a river in turn. She would have been just as famous as Leonard The Vinky or whatever his name was. Her art deserved to be in museums, but Yoshi found a part of him liked that he was the only one who got to see it. It made him feel special. He always felt special when his mother was around._

_Her mural is his favourite piece of hers, though it is only half way done. It covers the entire wall, 7 feet high and 12 feet long, and she’s been working on it since she was Yoshi’s age. Yoshi likes to run his hands along the bottom, see the scribbles gradually become more and more defined as they climb higher on the wall, corresponding with her growth, both talent and age wise. Stick men become real men, colours become more artfully mixed, and brushstrokes become smoother. It is almost like a height chart, but instead of tracking ones height with a scratch across the wall every year like his Grandpa does for him, she tracks her growth with colours and oils._

_It is a copy of Raphael Sanzio Urbino’s_ The Schools of Athens _. It features a lot of people, and Yoshi doesn’t know where Athens is but he thinks it must be an exciting place, considering how the half painted people on the wall gesture and bustle about. He’d like to go there someday. He wonders if the people in the real Athens are as exciting as they are in the painting._

_When she isn’t practicing her martial arts or talking with Grandpa Sho in the secret room Yoshi’s not allowed in, she spends most of it in this room painting her mural. Yoshi loves to watch her paint. The mural is in the living room where the TV is, so Yoshi can have an eye on the action on screen while he watches his mother, his attention divided equally between the two._

_The day_ before _, Yoshi was doing just that. His hands gripped tight around his action figures as he made sound effects along with the monsters and heroes on screen. “I could kick that monsters butt,” he said, grinning, and his mother paused in her painting. “I could be an action hero!”_

_His mother’s lips twitched as they forced themselves into a smile. “You would be the greatest action hero in the world,” she said, fingers only shaking slightly as she painted an unsteady line._

_“Yeah! I’d be super cool. I’d fight the bad guys, beat them up and help people, just like our grandmas and grandpas did.”_

_His mother took a deep breath. It sounded like she might start crying._

_Yoshi peered at her over his shoulder. “Mommy?”_

_“It’s nothing,” she said, stepping down from her footstool and brushing her hand across her eyes. When she looked at him, he couldn’t tell what she was thinking, but he knew she was sad._

_She came towards him and sat at his side. Yoshi crawled into her lap. His mother wrapped her arms around him, tight enough to hurt. He sunk into the embrace. “I just thought… It’s been a while since I watched your shows with you. Tell me, who are the good guys again?”_

_Yoshi beamed. “Atomic man! He’s super cool, he fights with lazer beams and friendship and…”_

_He goes on for a while. His mother listens to every word, absorbing the stories as Yoshi tells them excitedly, explaining plots and characters as only a five year old can, and he felt her relax beneath him. She leaned in, pressing her chin against his head._

_A thought occured. “When will you finish your painting?” Yoshi asked as his mother leaned her chin against his head._

_She said nothing in return._

_*_

_The next day, she’s gone. The mural is never finished._

-

Hamato Yoshi never wanted kids.

In fact, he found the very idea sickening. The thought of having to care for another life shook him to the core, reminded him of responsibility and clans and forgotten family. Whenever his longest lasting girlfriend (before she turned out to be a giant spider) would tuck a strand of white hair behind her ear and mention the idea of children, sheepishly, a sly grin on her face, he would sputter and make an excuse, change topics, find a way to get out of the situation. Once, drunk, he’d even puked.

The Hamato clan would end with him, he’d decided as a child as he watched his mother disappear into a haze.

And yet life, as always, throws the most vicious of curveballs as he retreats from the crumbling lab with four bundles in his arms and hair sprouting from his legs.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> cw alcohol and drugs mentioned in flashback

-

_The last time he’d had to sleep in an alleyway was when one of his super star girlfriends who’s name he can no longer remember came home to find him in bed with another girl._

_She’d stumbled into the room, took one look at the situation before her, and exploded. “Who is the fuck is she?” She demanded, drunk as all hell._

_The girl in his bed leapt swiftly to her feet, wrapping a blanket around her naked form as she attempted to flee the rom. His girlfriend reached towards her in anger as she passed, her nails like claws as they tried to rip the sheet from the other woman. They struggled for a minute before the other woman got loose, fleeing towards the apartment entrance._

_With the girl gone, his girlfriend focused her attention on Lou. He gulped, smiling casually, holding up his hands in defense. “Babe, it’s not what you think-“_

_There was fire in his girlfriend’s eyes as she interrupted him midsentence. “Oh? What am I supposed to think? Care to explain what_ she was _doing in_ our _bed?”_

_Lou’s mind struggled to form a coherent thought. Truth was, he was drunk off a whole bottle of vodka and high on… Well, he wasn’t quite sure, but his girlfriend certainly had a lot of it stashed away in the bottom hatch of her jewelry box. “… We were playing twister.”_

_“TWISTER?”_

_“Extreme edition.”_

_“Do I look like a fucking idiot?_

_She looked like a blond bimbo, one you would find on the front page of a Playboy magazine. “No. You look like… Like an angel, babe, yeah? Like Gabriel or something, or like… Fuck, Mona Lisa or some shit… Like a bitch in a painting…”_

_“Are you high?”_

_“Maybe a little.” He was very high indeed._

_“And who’s shit did you take?”_

_Lou didn’t respond. So he dipped into her stash of nose-candy. It wasn’t a big deal, she knew where to get more. She could afford it._

_His girlfriend stared at him. She looked like she might cry. She also looked like she was three seconds away from killing him. “Get out of my house.”_

_“Babe-“_

_“GET OUT!”_

_And so, with only enough time to pull up his pants and grab one of his shoes, he fled the building._

_“Yeah, whatever,” he mumbled as he staggered half naked down the Los Angeles streets. Alcohol and anger spun a vicious cocktail in his stomach. The regret had yet to set in. “Whatever.”_

_It had rained the night before and the road was bloated with puddles. He stepped forcefully in one as he stumbled along, grimacing as the water seeped into his shoeless sock and soaked the bottom of his pants. “Bitch. Whatever. I’m Lou fucking Jitsu. I do what I want.”_

_He stopped under a streetlight, looking at the cloudy sky. There were so few stars. The few that made it through the intense light pollution of the big city spun dizzily in his vision. “Whatever. Whore.”_

_His stomach lurched. He clenched his eyes shut, trying to quiet the buzzing in his brain. A dog barked somewhere far away. A siren wailed. His ears burned at the noise._

_He had to sit down._

_He stumbled into an alleyway. Heading to the nearest trash bin, he leaned his head against the cool, rusted metal, savoring the relief it gave his burning forehead._

_Then, he threw up. “Whatever,” he mumbled between heaves, his stomach emptying itself into the trash and onto the dirty pavement. “Whatever.”_

_When he finally felt his stomach empty, he dropped to the ground, leaning against a collection of dripping trash bags. Gasping for breath, he let his head fall back and lean against the alley wall, trying to ignore the taste of bile in his mouth._

_He wiped a hand across his sweaty forehead. God, maybe he shouldn’t have done that last hit. He always did stupid shit when he was high. Last time he got this fucked up he’d jumped off a two story roof- it was a miracle he’d only gotten a sprained ankle, and his managers had chewed him out for that, but did he keep on filming through the pain? He sure did. He was a fucking_ professional, _Goddammit, there was no way he’d let some little sprain get in the way of his career._

_There was nothing professional about throwing up in a back alley. He felt like a bum, like a loser, like someone who’d just cheated on his girlfriend who’s name he could barely remember even though they’d been dating for over three weeks, so did it really count as cheating?_

It does, _his conscience told him._

_“Whatever.”_

-

 _Not the worst night I’ve ever had,_ Yoshi thinks with a half chuckle, half sob, staring at his inhuman hands. He can feel his teeth growing long and sharp in his mouth and the itch of fur stretching across his shoulders. His stomach twists like it did the first time he took a life.

The pain is almost overwhelming. Bones and organs reshape, pushing themselves about under his skin. He feels every millimeter they slide and cross. He holds himself close as his form continues, slowly, to change.

He’d escaped the Mystic City with nary a fight. With the explosion of the lab holding everyone’s attention, slinking his way through the shadows had been easy, even while struggling to hold four squirming turtles. Finding an entryway to New York had been simple. Once he’d re-entered the city he hadn’t seen in so long, he’d breathed deep and tasted the scent of garbage and gasoline. Rain poured and traffic blared, and someone yelled at someone else from across the street. _That’s New York,_ he’d thought, stepping into the wet alleyway and falling to his knees. _What a town._

He’d found a cardboard box. He’d sat inside, placed the turtles on the ground, and then he’d stared into the dirty walls of the alleyway, considering the reality of his new situation.

Was this better than being locked in a prison, determined to wither away?

He doesn’t know how long he’s been sitting in this alleyway. The rain has yet to let up, pounding against his reluctant shelter. Soon it would be soaked through- he does not know what he will do when the cardboard ceiling caves in. The thought of anything other than the present sets his mind aflame.

He stares at the little turtles. He had bundled them together in a dirty cloth that he had scrounged up in the alleyway tucked beneath a trash bag. It was better then nothing. The babies seem content enough, curled up against each other. One of them sucks on its thumb. Another stares up at him, its eyes wide and considering. Yoshi is struck by how human they look; how human they act. His guts churn and his clenched fists sweat.

What the hell is he doing.

He has no experience with children. He is not _fit_ to deal with children. He is a fighter, no matter how hard he’s tried to move past that part of his life. His hands are stained with blood and his heart is filled with regret. These new beings deserve better than him.

He thinks, for a sickening moment, that he could so easily walk away. It’s what he’s always done best. Perhaps it would be better- leave them to the elements, let nature take its course, try his best to survive on his own. Maybe he could go back to the Mystic City. He could try and scrounge up a life in the back alleys there. He wonders if Big Mama would accept him if he came crawling back. He shivers at the thought of seeing her again.

One of the turtles mumbles out a sound. It is the smallest one, and it is reaching towards him, its eyes wide and worried.

Yoshi reaches his hand towards it in turn. Tiny hands grab at his fingers, wrapping around the digits, seeking warmth and comfort and Yoshi finds himself calming. No- he needs not leave. He knows what he must do. He takes the babies into his arms and holds them close.

He’s been avoiding responsibility his whole life. Perhaps its time to stop running away.

The cardboard box sags down, snapping him back to the present. His shelter is weakening.

He needs to get out of the rain, so he wraps the cloth into a makeshift sack and wraps the babies in it, holding them close as he stalks painfully through the alleyways until he finds a manhole cover. Its easy enough to move the cover to the side and crawl inside, though the ladders rings are slick with condensation. Climbing down one handed, he holds onto the babies tight.

His feet slip a on a few of the rings. His shoes are tattered, rat shaped claws ripping rat claw shaped holes through the seams. They’re useless in this state. When he gets to the bottom, he removes them entirely, kicking them into the dirty sewer water.

The smell is terrible. Rot and trash permeate the air. Yoshi sways on his feet as the smells assault his senses, and he has _definitely_ got a better sense of smell now because he can identify at least 40 different sour sources of stink in the decrepit underworld he’s found himself in.

Coughing, he hides his snout in the crook of his shoulder. It is nearly pitch black, the only light coming from the holes in the manhole covers and the occasional grate overflowing with water. He takes a step forwards and walks into something wet. Another step, and his foot bumps something furry that lets out a squeal as it flees, sending a wave of reminder down his aching spine. He shakes his head, tries to clear his thoughts- he has others to attend to, now. He will never allow another being to hurt because of him.

He curls his arms around the children. He descends into the deep.

-

Eventually, after trudging through water and mud and God know what, he finds a dry enough spot and settles down. Streetlight filters through a grate a few meters away, giving Yoshi just enough light to see. Gently placing the sack of babies into his lap, he shakes in pain and uncertainty.

Feeling his face, he finds whiskers. He’d felt them beginning to poke through his skin earlier. His transformation still hasn’t quite stuck itself in his mind. He dreads the next time he sees his reflection.

The turtles squirm in his lap. Yoshi reaches into the makeshift sack, his fingers shaking, and is promptly bitten.

“AH!” he cries, jerking back. The very tip of his index finger is gone, blood spurting from the wound. “What was that for?”

The biter- the spiky one who’d bitten his lip earlier that evening, Green Number 2- only chirps. He reaches his tiny hands out, waves them about. He opens his mouth, closes it, then opens it again. Yoshi hears the faint sound of rumbling.

“You’re hungry,” he realizes, internally smacking himself for not thinking of this sooner. Of course they’re hungry. They’re babies. He doesn’t know much about babies, but he does know they love to eat.

Yoshi’s hungry too.

He takes a bit of his sleeve in his mouth. His teeth are sharp- he bites through the fabric with ease, wrapping the ripped piece around his wounded finger with a hiss. He leans back against the dirty sewer wall and drops his wounded hand to the side. He sighs again. He has no idea what he’s going to do. How the hell is he supposed to feed himself, let alone four turtles? He realizes, with a jolt, that he doesn’t even know what turtles normally eat.

He doesn’t know anything about turtles in general. They’re reptiles, he’s pretty sure, and he remembers just enough from elementary school to know that means they’re cold blooded and they hatch from eggs. That means they don’t need milk. Which is good, because Yoshi has no idea how he would even begin to procure enough formula for one baby, let alone four. But they have human DNA too, he reminds himself- what if they _do_ need milk? What if they can’t eat anything at all? What if he can’t take care of them at all? What if he’s forced to watch them wither away and die?

One of the turtles crawls out of the bag. In the faint light that sifts in through the grate, Yoshi notes the red colouration around its eyes. Gently, he reaches for the baby, touching the back of its shell with his good hand. Its cold, and the baby shivers. It snuggles into the warmth of his hand. _Cold blooded,_ he thinks, sudden realization dawning.

Gently, he takes each turtle out of the sack. He notes, for the first time, how different they are. Different species, perhaps? There’s more than one type of turtle, right?

The spiky one that likes to bite is the largest. Its tail is longer than the others and its beak is sharp- Yoshi knows that very well- but its eyes are kind, and it looks at him in awe as Yoshi picks him up and holds him close, careful to maneuver the tiny body so that the spikes don’t poke him or the others.

The smallest one, meanwhile, has all of its limbs tucked into its shell when he removes it from the makeshift sack. It shivers and chirps as he holds it close, settling it next to the red-eyed turtle that has taken to dozing in the warmth of his lap, curled up next to the biter. Yoshi wonders if red-eye and the smallest one are the same species, but there are enough differences in their appearance and behaviour that he doubts that very much.

He worries most about the last one he takes from the bag. Its shell is soft to the touch and slightly leathery. Without the hard piece of bone its siblings have it looks downright delicate. It squirms in his grip, trying to escape, and Yoshi lets out a little chuckle at its efforts. “It’s alright,” he says as he tucks him next to the others. “You’re safe.”

He wraps his arms around the babies. They settle against him, and Yoshi, exhausted and in pain, finds himself drifting in and out of consciousness, on the very precipice of sleep.

-

After a while, the stabbing pains in his body have mostly dissipated into a constant ache. Yoshi forces himself back to full consciousness as he stretches his fingers and finds them encompassed in fabric, and holy shit either his clothes have spontaneously grown or he’s gotten shorter. He leans towards the later as he flexes his toes and finds them, too, uncomfortably encased.

He’s sitting uncomfortably on something. He doesn’t remember anything there when he’d sat down, before, and it is with a sickening jolt he realizes that he can feel himself through the thing he’s sitting on, it’s kind of cold where the tip pokes out of his pants and holy shit that’s a tail.

The realization hits him full force as he experimentally wiggles his new appendage- he is no longer human. He expects horror at the thought, but instead he finds he feels an intense numbness deep in his aching core. He’s gotten used to being around non-humans in the months in the Battle Nexus; it almost feels earned that he’s become one of the beings he’s lived among for so long.

Wiggling his new tail some more, he finds it hard to maneuver. Struggling to find a comfortable enough position, he accidentally awakens the babies in his lap.

One of them immediately starts crying. _Great,_ Yoshi thinks, trying not to rustle them any more as he readjusts his grip. One of his sleeves, the one he’d ripped before, is short enough for his hand to reach out and pat the upset infant on the head. It cries even harder.

“I know,” Yoshi says, glad to find his ability to speak has not been compromised by the mutation, “you’re cold and you’re hungry and you’re scared. It’s alright. I am too. You’re okay, though. I won’t let anything happen to you.”

His words don’t soothe the infant. It grabs onto his hand with its tiny little fingers and squeezes tight. Yoshi squeezes back. “You’re alright.”

Finally, the baby stops crying. Pulling Yoshi’s hand towards its mouth, it promptly begins to chew on his finger.

“Ow,” Yoshi says, but this one isn’t the biter, so he allows it. The babies are hungry- so is he, his stomach swirling with hunger and uncertainty.

He dreads the thought, but he supposes he must go dumpster diving if he wishes to procure food.

Sighing, he detaches the infant from his hand. After he returns the babies to their makeshift sack, he rips through the fabric of the longer sleeve with his teeth, then uses his unearthed claws to tear through the fabric of his pants. He refuses to remove the garments, no matter how dirty or ripped or cumbersome they become. He can offer himself the dignity of clothing, at the very least, during this time of uncertainty.

He takes the babies into his arms and begins down the tunnel. He utilises his new sense of smell to investigate every manhole they come across. Eventually he detects the familiar smell of food flowing temptingly from behind one.

Gently placing the turtles in a nearby alcove a few feet above the waterline, he looks at them with pleading eyes. “Stay here,” he says, though he knows they do not understand. “I won’t be long. I promise.”

The littlest one lets out a tiny wail as it watches him leave. Yoshi tries to ignore it as he prepares to ascend, cautious of his new body and it’s limits. He finds, to his relief, that he is still just as athletic as before, able to pull himself up the ladder with ease, though he miscalculates the distance his arms and legs can now reach on occasion. _That’s going to take some getting used to,_ he thinks grimly, hand spasming as another round of growing (shrinking?) pain snakes down the length of his arm.

The rain has thankfully stopped by the time he carefully maneuvers the manhole cover from its spot. The heavy humid air casts a deep fog throughout the city. Yoshi is thankful for the extra cover as he stalks towards the shadows.

One of his bones snaps painfully in his leg. Shrinking pains. He hisses, but stays on his feet, focusing instead on his newfound sense of smell. He’s behind a restaurant, one that he is unfamiliar with. He’d never used to come to this side of town when he was Lou Jitsu.

It’s a pizza place. Yoshi finds a discarded box on the ground near one of the dumpsters. The logo on the box is of a happy Italian man, and the text reads ‘Luigis World Famous Pastaroni.” Yoshi’s never heard of them before. He flips open the box and finds soggy pizza crush. Grimacing, he keeps it in mind as he pushes it aside.

He has more luck in the dumpster. He finds a box of half eaten pizza, three whole slices left barely touched, and a half eaten box of cold spaghetti that looks downright appealing in his famished state. He gathers them up and heads back to the manhole. 

As he prepares to descend back into the sewers, something catches his eye. A tarp, half held down by trash and riddled with holes, blows in the wind. He takes that, too, wrapping the food inside it and lowering it to the bottom.

When Yoshi gets back to the alcove with the half-eaten pizza and the ripped up tarp, fear flashes through his heart. The smallest turtle has managed to crawl down from the safety of the alcove, peering into the dark and dirty sewer water with curiosity. It looks up at Yoshi as he nears, its eyes shining in excitement, and its hands slip, and it falls in.

“No!” Yoshi exclaims, throwing the pizza box to the side and leaping forwards. Grabbing the baby by the foot, he hauls it out of the water. It spits and coughs and gasps for air, and then it begins to cry.

“Shh, it’s okay,” Yoshi says, pulling the soaking infant close. It clings to his clothes, shivering in shock as Yoshi rocks it gently, doing his best imitation of a motherly gesture he’s seen on tv while trying to dry it with what remains of his sleeve.

Gradually, the baby calms, its sobs becoming gasps becoming whimpers. It looks at Yoshi, its eyes still wide, and Yoshi looks back.

The other turtles stare over the alcoves edge as Yoshi places their sibling back with him before retrieving the food and the tarp. Moving the turtles to the side, he places the tarp on the alcoves floor- its not much, but its better than sleeping directly on sewer mud. Placing the pizza box and opening it up, he settles into the alcove with the turtles, squatting down and digging into his cold spaghetti.

Honestly, he’s eaten worse, he decides as he watches the babies’ squabble over the pizza.

-

His vision is getting worse.

The final step of his mutation, it seems, is the eyes. Up close, he can see as clearly as before. He flexes his hand in front of his face and can see the intricacies of the palm, the lines and the still forming claws, the shade of rat pink skin that stabs at his guts like a knife. The tip of his finger that had been bitten off has regrown.

The turtles are all green blobs until he picks them up and holds them close to his face. The smallest one loves when he does that, reaching forward and grabbing at his nose, so he does it often, huffing a laugh as it pinches the twitching appendage almost painfully. Still, he never knows which baby he’s holding until they are centimeters away from his face. It makes knowing who’s been fed and who’s been changed and who needs rest very difficult.

He needs some way to tell them apart.

On one of his supply runs, he finds a tattered rainbow flag. The colours stick out in his vision from meters away. He takes it with him when he returns to where he’s stashed the babies for this run and tears a strip of different colours. He ties the bands around each of the babies.

The spiky one is Red.

The one with red markings is Blue.

The softshell is Purple.

And the smallest one is Orange.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you so much for the kind comments i legit really appreciate them so much they make my day i cry when i see them im just. too shy to respond but im glad ppl are legit enjoying this!!!! also this chapter is uhh unbeta'd so theres probably a lot of mistakes but goddamn i wanted to get it out.

_His first manager is named Erwin, and he’s a slimy piece of shit but he has connections and influence, so Yoshi goes along with his plans. “We can make big money off of this kung fu shit,” Erwin said, taking a deep drag of his cigarette. “Cheap production, too, if you do your own stunts.”_

_“Ninjitsu,” Yoshi corrected. He stubbed the butt of his own cigarette out in the overfilled ashtray. They’d met on the set of another film, one he’d been a stunt actor in that Erwin had been a producer of, some shitty American Gangster flick that had barely gotten notice and hadn’t made its money back. 3/10, the average reviewer gave it, and in Yoshi’s opinion that was far too generous. “I practice ninjitsu.”_

_Erwin waved a hand. “Ninjitsu, kung fu, it’s all Asian shit, no offense, no one cares about the specifics. Point is, action movies are flying off the shelves, and with your skills you could absolutely sweep the market. You got the looks, you got the style, you’ve got abs sculpted by the Gods, I swear you’re destined for this kinda shit.”_

_Yoshi flinched at the mention of destiny. “I wouldn’t go that far.”_

_“Why not? I mean, look, the only reason_ American Panther _had any sort of redeeming qualities was because of your talent. You think Jacob Martin’s able to do his own stunts? Guy can barely hold a cup of coffee without spilling it all over the damn place. You made the fight scenes actually watchable, Yoshi, your skills with karate are insane.”_

Ninjitsu, _Yoshi thought,_ I literally just corrected you, _but the praise still made him smile. “I_ am _pretty fucking good at what I do.”_

_“Exactly! No need to hire stuntmen for the lead if you’re the star- do your own stunts, make your own fame. No need to stand in the background while some asshole who barely knows how to fake a punch takes all the glory.” Erwin stubbed his own cigarette out into the ashtray, taking a pack out of his shirt pocket and lighting another one immediately. The apartment always smelled like tobacco, but Yoshi had gotten used to it after crashing there for almost a week._

_“And the pay?”_

_“First movie? Not gonna lie, you’re gonna get squat, even as the lead. But if we make it a franchise…”_

_Yoshi nodded, considering. “It’s a gamble.”_

_“Yeah, it is. I’ve got a good feeling about you, though. You’re a money maker, I can already tell. Just a little bit of polish and you’ll be a goddamn star.” Reaching behind him, Erwin produced a paper. “I’ve already got the contract written up. I’m thinking three movies, at first, more if they’re well received- and I’ve got people in high places willing to go the extra length to make these movies a hit, I promise you that. We don’t even need a solid script. If you show off your moves and your abs, people will flock to the theaters for that alone. Audiences are dumb. They’ll watch anything if its got a muscley dude beating up bad guys.”_

_Taking the contract, Yoshi skimmed along its contents. It looked real enough, and his coworkers had said good (enough) things about Erwin’s management, he definitely got results, but… “This is legit, right?”_

_“Legit as anything, baby. Already looking for directors,” he said. This was true- Yoshi had personally me with some of the directors that Erwin raved about, shaking hands with Will Armstrong and Alan Smithy themselves. “Just need you to sign off, and we can get started on production.”_

_-_

_Two weeks ago, Yoshi was struggling to pay his rent week to week, struggling to find a notable job in the cutthroat Hollywoodland industry, struggling for the praise he deserved with all the hard work he put into himself and his skills. Now, the potential of a bright, lucrative future held itself within reach. A whole series of movies, dedicated to him. And best of all- he made this himself. He chose his own path._

_-_

_Yoshi took the pen. He signed the contract._

_Erwin smiled. “Great! Now, about my cut…”_

_*_

_Yoshi stared at the phone for a long time before he decided to call._

_“I’ve got a new job,” he said, his grandfather sighing on the other end of the line._

_“When are you coming home?”_

_“I’m not coming home. I’ve got a home here, now, in California. This manager, he’s taking care of everything- I’m staying with him while we work on getting our first project of the ground. It’s a good gig, Jiji. I’ve actually got a shot at being someone.”_

_“You already_ are _someone, Yoshi. You’re a Hamato.”_

_“We’re working on that. I’m going to go by a stage name- we’re trying to think up some kind of pun, something that rolls off the tongue. American’s like funny names, you’ve got to play to the market.”_

_“A new name?”_

_“A stage name. It’s the name that I’ll be credited for in the movies I’m in.”_

_He can almost hear his grandfather shaking his head across the line. “Yoshi, this is getting ridiculous. Are you truly willing to sacrifice your destiny for something so foolish? Please, come back home.”_

_“Again with the destiny! Is it so wrong that I want to take my life into my own hands? That I don’t want to die for some stupid prophecy that’s not even real?”_

_“It is our duty as Hamato-“_

_“Why can’t you just be happy for me for once?”_

_Silence. His grandfather took a deep breath on the other side of the country._

_Yoshi fumed. “Fuck you, then. I’m staying here, and I’m making my own goddamn destiny, whether you like it or not.”_

_“Your mother would be so disappointed in who you’ve become.”_

_Yoshi slammed the phone down with such force the receiver ripped from the wall._

-

Red is the first to walk.

His first steps are wobbly and careful, as though trying to not step on any bugs. Red is always so thoughtful about those around him, instinctually seems to be a protective shield around his brothers. He is the biggest, and Yoshi decides that makes him the oldest. When he takes his first steps, Yoshi standing only a few feet away and encouraging him forwards with small words of praise, the smile that lights both their faces is unmatched by the suns very rays.

When Red starts walking, the others start too. Blue and Purple start matching Red’s steps fairly quick, but Orange takes his time, content to curl into his shell and be carried along. Sometimes he sits on his biggest brothers back, letting his arms dangle from Red’s shoulder blades as he snoozes comfortably. Sometimes the others join, too, and though he struggles under the added weight, Red seems to enjoy being a pack mule, so Yoshi says nothing and simply smiles at the ruckus.

It is, inevitable, that they start trying to follow him above ground once their skills on foot have passed from ‘crawling’ into ‘hobbling’. Forcing them back into one of their hiding places is amongst the hardest things Yoshi’s done (besides, well, everything in his life. Hardest thing he’s had to do to the kids, he amends.) The standard rule becomes ‘Dad goes out, you stay here’ followed swiftly by ‘everything will kill you above ground _and_ below so don’t leave your spot no matter what’ and followed, finally, by ‘listen to Red if things go wrong.”

Though they can’t talk quite yet, understand sentence structure and warnings even less, they understand the severity in their fathers’ voice. So they nod their little heads, shrinking into the cache Yoshi has prepared (he has them hidden throughout the sewers by now, the usual route their small band patrols, small little alcoves with blankets and books and soft toys he’s managed to find while scavenging) and curling up against each other, their shells clinking as they form a small pile, trying to find contentment in their little games and in their companionship.

Oftentimes, when Yoshi returns from foraging, he finds Red to be the last one awake, watching over his younger siblings with an intense gaze as they rest, posture tight and defensive before he realizes it’s his father returning with goodies. His smile, little snaggletooth hanging from his mouth, makes Yoshi smile in turn.

It’s when after he returns from a foraging trip that took much longer than he intended to wonder if he’s made mistakes. It’s been a full 14 hours above ground before he manages to race back to his kids; much, _much_ too long, but how was he supposed to know there’d be _something_ criminal happening that had police officers on every block, in every alley, alert eyes tracking any sort of movement and of _course_ they’d be stationed specifically over every damned manhole as if the criminal would find refuge in the sewers, who would want to live there anyway? Still; once they disperse he finds his way back into the labyrinth beneath Manhattan, high tailing it to the place he’d stored his children.

When Yoshi rounds the corner and comes near where he stored the children, he hears a terrible, feral growl. It makes him stop in his tracks, ice pouring through his veins. _No,_ he thinks, images of the things he’d fought in the battle nexus flashing brilliantly before his eyes, terror and rage flashing through his body. _Not like this._

He races forwards, ready to fight, but pauses as white filmed eyes glare up at him from the darkness of the sewers.

Red growls again, bearing his teeth, his snaggletooth looking downright intimidating as the inhuman sound rises from his gullet. Yoshi stares at his son, the oldest, the protector, and frowns. “It is me,” he says, “It’s just me.”

At the sound of his voice, Red relaxes visibly. Blinking the white from his eyes, he lets out a chirping noise, one that Yoshi has come to associate with contentedness and pleasure, and three more pairs of eyes lock with Yoshi’s in the darkness before four forms come bursting towards him from the cache, wails of displeasure and relief echoing in the cavernous sewers.

Yoshi kneels, lets the tots’ barrel into him. “I meant to come back sooner,” He says, scooping the turtles into an embrace. “I never meant to leave you for so long. You are safe. I am home.”

Later that night, when the other babies have fallen into deep sleep, Yoshi takes a tired Red into his arms and holds him close. “I’m sorry I’ve put so much pressure on you,” Yoshi says, guilt striking his heart like a knife. “No one should have expectations thrust upon them when they are so young. You deserve better.”

Red simply sticks out his tongue, blows a raspberry. It makes Yoshi chuckle; makes him resolve to raise these kids right. Raise them better. Be better in turn.

-

Purple is the first to speak, and with his words come a wave of relief like no other.

He can’t help it. Despite their grunts and babbles and noises, Yoshi was worried for them and their ability to communicate. Did they even have the right vocal cords? He was sure they had the necessary intellect- they were quite advanced, mentally, for 2 year old’s, could follow commands and understood basic numbers and acted for all intents and purposes as a human child would at their age- but the worry clung heavy to his gut like day old soup.

Purple blubbers “dada” as they read a good quality children’s book they’ve managed to scrounge up, pointing to the dad in the drawn family picture, and it takes all Yoshi has to not burst into tears right there and then.

Blue follows quickly after that, then Orange, and finally Red, his eyes squinting in concentration as he tries to copy the others. Hearing them babble small sentences to each other makes Yoshi’s heart soar.

After they begin to speak, they do not stop. Yoshi learns to bite his tongue more often then not as the toddlers begin to copy everything he says- Blue hears him say ‘fuck’ once and it’s all the little turtle says for the next few days, waddling around and teaching it to his brothers until they’re all saying it, giggling at Yoshi’s distraught looks and desperate pleas.

When they are three, Purple asks Yoshi a question. “Why are we different?” He says as he tears at a mangled stuffed animal Yoshi’s managed to find. He gives the best quality ones he finds to Red, who needs the comfort of something soft as he sleeps. Purple just keeps on tearing his own apart. Purple is smart- he wants to know how things work, asks questions and is frustrated when you don’t have an answer. Yoshi often hands any electronics he can’t get working off to the little turtle, who rips into them like a starved vulture to a corpse. Sometimes he even manages to get the broken things working again, much to his family’s delight.

Yoshi is prepared for this question. “You are different species,” he says, listing off what he’s learned the past few years from scrounged up encyclopedias and information pamphlets. He thinks he’s done a good job educating himself; he knows the diets, lifecycle, anatomy of red-eared sliders (he’s pretty sure Blue is a red-eared slider, but he might be a painted turtle, the two look very similar), snapping turtles, soft-shelled turtles (“that’s why you wear that pillow on your back, your shell is too soft and it’s dangerous in the sewers without protection and you’re all getting too rowdy in your playtime”) and box turtles like he knows the back of his hand. The other turtles pause their game of soccer (kicking around a ball of mud) to listen in, heads titled in curiosity.

“No,” Purple says when the lecture is over, ripping out one of the scruffy teddy bears eyes. “Why aren’t we people?”

Yoshi does not know how to respond to that. He says nothing, lets Purples disappointed stare follow him for the rest of his life.

*

Orange is the first to say “I love you dad” as Yoshi tucks the turtles into bed one night, bundled up in a dirty blanket and curled up tight against each other.

Yoshi cries happy tears for the rest of the evening.

*

Blue is the first to challenge him.

“Why can’t we go above ground?” Blue whines for the fourth day in a row, stamping his feet on the ground in defiance as he follows their father through the sewers.

“Because it’s dangerous,” Yoshi replies steadily, leading the four along the path to the next closest cache.

“It’s dangerous here,” Blue points out.

“Yes, it is. But there is no one in the sewers who would be scared if they saw us. Above ground, the people might do something drastic if we were found.” The words _violated, dissected, killed_ ring strong in his mind. Yoshi knows the evils that men can commit against their own kind, let alone mutated abominations. It is safer down here, no matter how much it pains him to deprive his sons of experience. The vision of the turtles being vivisected haunts his nightmares and pervades his thoughts.

“What’s ‘drastic?’” Orange says curiously, tightening his grip on Yoshi’s hand (he’s always at the front of the line, always wants to be closest to his dad.)

“It means ‘very extreme,’” Purple replies before Yoshi can say anything, a smug look on his face as Orange beams. 

“Purple’s smart!” He exclaims, as if the rest of the family doesn’t already know.

Red snickers while Purple puffs out his chest, straps that hold his protective pillow in place on his back fluttering with the movement. “I’m a genius,” he says, and Yoshi is really starting to regret using that word to describe him, because he hasn’t stopped saying that about himself for three months now and it’s starting to get _very_ annoying.

“We’re extreme,” Blue says, confident, striking a pose for a long moment, long enough for the family to walk ahead of him, enough time for Purple to look back at him and snicker. He catches up to the travelling band quickly, his steps assured and his posture strong. “We would fit in with the people up there.”

“’Drastic’ does not refer to anything good in this case,” Yoshi corrects, sighing. “The people above ground would hurt you, simply because you do not conform to what they believe is right.”

“Why?” Red asks from the back (he always takes the rear, always on guard for anything that might harm his family. He is a good kid, and Yoshi wonders if he deserves better.)

“Because that’s how people are.”

“But why?” Blue is getting frustrated. His fists are clenched, his eyes squinted. Yoshi knows these are signs of an impending meltdown. He braces for impact, listens to the rest of what his son has to say. “Why are people like that?”

Yoshi doesn’t think long enough before he answers. “Because we are different,” he spits, a bitter taste unintentionally leaving his mouth, surprising even himself. “Because we don’t belong.”

The turtles blank. Orange’s grip tightens in his hand almost painfully. Yoshi regrets the words as they leave his mouth; alas, they are already said, he cannot take them back. Tears threaten his own eyes as he thinks of a life amongst others, of a life long ago, a life when he could be who he was unapologetically, a life without worries and care and responsibilities to be shirked.

There is silence, for a while, after that. The only sounds in the sewers is the incessant flow of water, the constant shrieks of rats.

“Is there any place we could belong?” Blue eventually wonders aloud, the note high in his voice. “With people like us? Do you think there is?”

Yoshi stays quiet.

Perhaps he is selfish- he does not wish for them to know of the Mystic City and of people like them, Yokai walking the streets as though they belong, vendors and entertainers and caretakers all unique, all alike in their shared inhumanity. Too many bad memories are trapped in those walls. It is as dangerous there as it is above ground, this he knows; his time there has been branded into his soul, a scar that can never fully heal.

The past should stay as the past always stays;

Buried.

**Author's Note:**

> rottmnt is the first time ive ever given a shit about splinter as a character tbh lol


End file.
